Walk On Water
by tempestquill
Summary: She feels like this is a miracle, and maybe this is what it’s like to walk on water. She shivers at the thought, her eyes slipping shut at the heat rising within her. She knows that if he touches her she will feel it, she’ll be human again. Isaac/Claire.


Disclaimer: Heroes is Tim Kring's intellectual playground, I'm just roaming through his sandbox for a little while. No profits being made, this is just for kicks and giggles.

Author's Notes: This was beta'd by my lovely Aunt Juli who has become addicted to this particular pairing, due in part to me, I think.

"Walk On Water"  
By C.K. Blake

_Desperation makes animals of us all, it strips away our humanity, and everything that we've ever evolved into as a species slips away from us. Desperation builds within us longing, and a drive that can either be our destruction or salvation. What is the evolution of desperation? It's a single moment of order in endless chaos, and it strips us down to the very last thread of who we are._

--

He comes to her with an offer that she can't refuse. She hates him with every fiber of her being, but that doesn't stop her from listening to him. Actually him holding her against the far wall of the warehouse she tracked him down to might have a little bit to do with that as well.

"I know what I took from you, Claire, more than just your abilities. You think I took away your humanity. Maybe I did, but what if I can give some of it back, or what if I never took it in the first place?" he asks, his dark eyes locking with her hazel-green gaze.

"How?" she hisses.

He smirks. "I can go back, all I would need is Peter's ability, and then I wouldn't have to kill anymore. I'll take it from him after he meets you. It will spare so many countless lives, and maybe that will give us a fighting chance in this world where the ordinaries want us dead."

"But Peter…" Claire whispers.

"He's a necessary sacrifice, and he won't die, not with your abilities. You'll have your emotions, your pain, and Peter's little sacrifice could save the world," he says, "And why are you so concerned? It's not like you can feel anything, but I can go back and change all of that. Peter wouldn't be your enemy anymore."

She shivers at the proposition, and swallows thickly. "Okay, but why make me this offer?"

"I'll need you to protect the painter. I can't kill him before I get to Peter," he replies.

"The painter? The man who could paint the future?" Claire asks. "Why would he be so important?"

He snorts. "His ability is a distraction, I paint something that makes me lose focus. His paintings are possibilities, they can change with one sweep of a brush. I won't take your ability, I won't explore that pretty little head of yours, Claire, but you have to protect the painter. I'll take care of the rest."

"Why should I trust you, Sylar?" Claire asks, her eyes narrowed, body tense against the crushing unseen force holding her against the wall.

Sylar smirks. "You really shouldn't, but what choice do you have? Do you want the pain back? I can give it to you. There's too much going on in this world, it's nothing like that damn vision I painted after I killed Mendez. I'll talk myself into going after Peter, don't worry, I'll make sure he survives, after all, we'll need my brother in the coming war."

She glares at him as he slowly retracts his power. She rolls her shoulders and he tilts his head to the side and says, "It's amazing how removing one little gear can make you tick so differently. So we have a deal? We go back together and you keep the painter safe?"

He holds his hand out to her and she takes it, and he jerks her forward against his chest as the world shifts around them. When the blur stops and solid ground is beneath her feet again she shoves away from him. He laughs at her and then gets a look around at their surroundings, familiar, cold, gray New York.

--

As he blinks he feels the rush of coming back to himself. He pulls his hand back, drops the brush into the bucket of watered down turpentine and then tilts his head, examining the painting. The woman looks so familiar, but different somehow. Not quite right, older than how he knows her, darker, worn. His eyes widen and he looks from his latest painting to the painting of the cheerleader cowering on the steps with the shadow approaching her.

It can't be, the dark haired woman is the cheerleader. Peter has saved Bennet's daughter, but what has it cost the girl in the long run if she becomes the cold, dark haired woman in his latest painting. It's almost as if all of the feeling has been sucked out of her. It's a shame, a girl so full of life reduced to someone who doesn't even seem human anymore, where is that spark that made her special?

He hates that he's painted her this way, hates that he won't be able to save her from becoming this. No one is there to save her. He runs a hand through his hair, smearing paint in it. He grimaces, and then sighs. He's picked a perfect time to become sober and drug-free, with an exploding Peter Petrelli and a crazed murderer in his future. He's wondering why he's putting in the effort to keep clean. It hardly seems worth it, but Peter's missing and Simone's been coming to him. Sure she's using him to try and find Peter, but she's still coming to him.

He lets out a bitter laugh, his hands in his hair as he tilts his head back, slowly slipping to his knees, because he knows he's weak, and it's probably only a matter of time before he's using again. Anything to escape his paintings, these visions, his future. Anything to be numb and not feel the fear, pain, regret, or anger.

He lets his arms fall to his sides and looks at the cheerleader all grown up, seemingly cold and he envies how numb she's probably become.

--

She's on her own as she heads to the building where the familiar loft is located. Hiro had once made it his headquarters. She hurries up the stairs, and it isn't long before she's standing at the door to the airy loft. She tries the door, finds that it's locked and snorts. She reaches in the pocket of her black pants, removes a couple of tools from a pouch. She smirks when she hears the familiar click sound, and then she puts the picks away, and slips through the door.

She takes in her surroundings, her nose wrinkling at the sharp, biting smells of the paint and turpentine. She looks around, and her eyes widen as she freezes and catches sight of a man standing dead center in the loft, a brush in his hand, a canvas half finished before him. This must be the painter Sylar wants her to protect. This must by Isaac Mendez.

She wonders why he hasn't noticed her. Maybe something is wrong with him. She steps further into the room, and her eyes widen in surprise when she sees that hiss eyes are completely white, and he's working in an almost trance-like state. So obviously he's distracted. She shrugs, decides to poke around the loft. She comes across a tin with an old spoon and a rubber tourniquet and needle. She raises her brows at that. So the artist is a junkie apparently. She finds the Company issued gun next. She takes it, checks that it's loaded and the safety is on, and then she puts the gun in the back of her pants at the small of her back.

She explores his small kitchenette, the fridge mostly empty except for a couple of cans of soda and some Chinese take out that is God only knows how old. She closes the fridge, and then walks back out toward the studio where Isaac is still engrossed in his trance and his latest painting. She takes a leisurely stroll through the room, looking at the various paintings. She pauses as she comes across a painting of Peter, so young and carefree. He's flying and there is no scar marring his face, and he doesn't yet have the weight of saving the world on his shoulders.

She reaches out, her fingers tracing along his innocent expression, a sad smile tugging at her lips as she remembers the beginning, funny, charming, sweet, caring Peter. She remembers the before, even if she can't quite recall how she felt in the before, she still gets a whimsical feeling. She sighs and moves on, looking at the other paintings. She sees herself on the steps of Union Well's high school, Sylar coming after her. If she remembers correctly, that's already happened.

She turns and her eyes widen as she's left staring at a portrait of herself, not the younger version of the present, but her as she is now, as she is in the future. She takes in a sharp breath, tilting her head as she wonders if she really seems so distant, so inhumanly numb.

She's so caught in the painting that she doesn't notice that Isaac is no longer in his trance, and as an unfamiliar hand lands on her shoulder, she jumps, spins, draws her gun and takes the safety off, training the gun squarely on Isaac Mendez's chest. He takes a step back, holding his hands up to show he's unarmed and virtually harmless. She takes in a breath, flicks the safety back on and sets the gun down on a table.

"Mind telling me how you got in here?" he asks, and then she notices strange recognition in his dark eyes as he looks past her toward the painting.

"The cheerleader all grown up," he says in wonder, and he reaches out toward her again, stopping short of touching her, unsure of how she'll react. "What happened to you?"

She runs her tongue across her mouth and replies, "The same thing that happens to you. Sylar finds me. Only, I'm not supposed to let that happen this time."

"But I'm supposed to die. I've painted it. He comes for me," Isaac says. "If I don't die who knows what that could do to the future."

"In case you haven't noticed, it's not all that great. Why else would I be here?" she snaps.

"But if Sylar found you, how are you still alive?" Isaac whispers.

She lets out a choked, bitter laugh. "I'm special. Don't you know that? I can't die. I can't feel anything anymore either. That's going to change though. As long he doesn't come for you."

Isaac paces the length of his studio, his hands running through his hair, smearing paint everywhere, but he's got too much on his mind to really give a damn about that. Finally he heads over to his bed, and sits down, his head in his hands trying to process everything. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, what she's doing here, from the future.

He looks up at her, curiosity getting the better of him as he asks, "What's it like?"

She's taken a little off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Being numb. Not feeling anything. What's it like?" he asks again.

She narrows her eyes. "You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do. I feel too much, responsibility, these visions, everything. It won't go away and it's driving me crazy!"

She snorts. "Is that why you're a junkie?" she asks primly, her eyes traveling to the open tin containing a needle, a tourniquet and a spoon.

"I'm clean," Isaac grinds out between clenched teeth. "I don't use anymore."

"But I bet you want a fix. You want to feel numb, right?" she says, and then he watches her as she goes over to the tin, picks up the needle, jabs it into one of the veins in her elbow, and draws her blood into the syringe. She pulls it from her arm, holds it up, taps the bubbles out, and then she tosses him the tourniquet. "Tie off and I'll give you a fix you'll never forget."

He catches the tourniquet in trembling hands, shakes his head as she approaches him, but he's weak and he does as she asks, he ties off. She taps his arm with two fingers at the crease of his left elbow. She raises a brow at the old track marks, but she finds a decent vein, and he can feel the needle as it pierces through his skin, and then she depresses the plunger.

It's very familiar at first, a slight burn that rushes through his veins, heading toward his heart, and he wonders what kind of effects her blood will have. He collapses to his knees clutching at his chest as her blood reaches his heart. He throws his head back in a scream, and Claire watches fascinated as his body trembles and seizes. She's never seen her blood used on someone who's systematically poisoned themselves for years.

She feels a slight stirring in her stomach, but pushes the unfamiliar sensation aside. It's nothing.

She watches as he curls up into a fetal position on the floor, trembling and sweating, and suddenly it's over, he collapses exhausted and sweaty, his body trembling in the aftershocks and from his labored breathing. It takes him a few minutes to collect himself enough to try to sit up, and as he does he looks healthier. He's still too skinny, but his coloring is better, the track marks on his arms are gone, and his eyes aren't sunken, his face while gaunt is no longer sallow.

He gets to his feet, teeters for a moment and then he straightens. He gives her a strange look and takes a step toward her.

"What have you done to me?" he asks in awe.

"I fixed you. It's all out of your system, like it was never there to begin with," she replies.

He looks around the loft, his eyes wide with wonder, almost like he's seeing everything around him for the first time, and maybe he is. Maybe her blood has done something to improve him physically. He then turns to her, stalks toward her and before she really gets what's going on, her dark hair is loose, his hands buried in it as he drags her head back and kisses her, and she can _feel_ it, searing heat, and her eyes flutter shut as that stirring in her stomach turns into a gut wrenching twist, heat and sensation flooding through her body, his hands burning through the sleeves of her sweater, and she wants to _feel_ more.

She shoves him away, her hazel-green eyes wide as she stares at him in astonishment. He is just as bewildered as she is, wondering what's going on, why there's this new, constant rush in his veins, better than any fix he's ever known, he's burning alive and he's feeling more than he's ever felt before. He's seeing beauty again.

"I felt you," she says, somewhat dazed. "How can I feel you?"

He runs his tongue across his lips and shrugs. "I don't know. How did you make me see again?"

There's a need in her now, and need is something she hasn't felt in a long time. She's had itches and scratched them, but this makes her gut twist, makes her remember pain and how it feels to be human, to want, to desire, to actually feel the desperation eating away at what's left of her soul. She feels like this is a miracle, and maybe this is what it's like to walk on water. She shivers at the thought, her eyes slipping shut at the heat rising from the ache in her belly, and she lets out a moan as she slowly opens her eyes, narrowing them on the painter, and she knows that if he touches her she will be able to feel it, she'll be human again.

She reaches for him, her hands twisting in his shirt and she jerks him forward, leaning up on her tiptoes, and their lips meet in a violent collision of desperation, her mouth working frantically, hungrily against his, and he's burning up from whatever her blood has done to him. They pull apart long enough for her to rip his shirt up over his head, and then she's shoving him toward the unmade bed in the far corner of the room. He stumbles back against it, the air rushing out of his lungs as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. She begins to crawl onto the bed, moving stealthily and catlike up his body, and he swallows thickly in anticipation as his veins burn, arousal pooling in his belly and joining the fire singing in his blood.

She leans down, her teeth nipping sharply at his throat, and he absently wonders how the innocent, blonde cheerleader he's been painting for the last few months can become this dark, predatory creature on top of him. He wants to see her, see how she's been reduced to this perfectly broken beauty. He knows once he sees her she'll live forever in his mind's eye and he'll paint her someday, just as she is. He'll paint her to remember her.

--

Sylar smiles as he watches the scene unfold, this is how it should have gone all those years ago, and with a little guidance his younger self is playing out the part perfectly. He watches from the cracked door of the bathroom, he's the one concentrating on keeping Mohinder Suresh on the ceiling and out of the way. His younger self is going to need all the focus he can manage to take care of Peter Petrelli.

This is almost poetic. He watches as his younger self points his finger, making the incision, Peter's severed bangs falling to the floor, and then his younger self is pulling away the skull, revealing that beautiful brain. He can't resist as he steps out of the bathroom, watches as his younger self explores the contents of Peter's ability, absorbing them, and Sylar shivers as his younger version drinks in the power. When it's done he approaches his younger self and says, "Remember what I said. We'll need him in the coming war when the ordinaries learn about us. Put his skull back on, he'll heal and live, and this is it from here on out. No more killing. You're not the villain anymore."

The younger version looks up at him, a dark, maniacal glint in his eyes as he says, "But I'll always be the villain. I'll just play nice for now."

Sylar smiles at his younger self and nods. "Good point. Just don't kill anyone else unless you have to, and leave the cheerleader alone. I'm a man of my word after all. The next time you meet her you'll have that wonderful power of hers."

His younger self smirks and then sighs as he looks up toward the ceiling and says, "And what about the good doctor? He's heard every little word."

Sylar lowers the geneticist from the ceiling and cocks his head to the side as he approaches the severely beaten man. "There's a war coming Mohinder. I'm part of the reason why we survive, and Peter is the key in what's to come. Make sure he lives through this. He's already starting to heal, and hey, no hard feelings okay? That whole dream I had to become a brain surgeon? It's kind of over and done with now. I'm moving on to bigger and brighter things, like maybe the presidency. What do you think?"

Mohinder pulls back and then spits in his face. Sylar reaches up and wipes it away, looking at the Indian man in disgust. "Okay, so maybe there are a few hard feelings. You're just lucky the future needs you Mohinder."

Sylar watches as the Indian man loses consciousness, and he turns to his younger self. "Put the good doctor on his bed, and let's go before someone comes poking around."

The younger Sylar hefts up the geneticist and drags him to the bed, and by the time he makes it back to main room of the apartment his future self is gone and Peter Petrelli is starting to come around. He slips out of the door as Peter lets out a groan.

--

Her thoughts are muddled as she begins to come around, and her body is so warm, there are arms around her, holding her tight, and as she shifts she can feel the aches and pains of everything from before she collapsed against the painter. Her eyes fly open as she realizes that she can feel again, that she's human. She shifts so that can get a better look at the painter, the man who's given her back her humanity. He looks healthier, the track marks on his arms gone, his breathing is easy, and she thinks that once he starts eating regularly again he'll fill out and get back to his normal weight.

She reaches out, her fingers brushing back the brown waves of his hair. He nuzzles closer against her, and she draws in her bottom lip. He's handsome, almost as broken as she is. She's so warm and alive in his arms right now, a sensation she hasn't felt in years. She remembers losing touch with Peter, losing touch with everyone, and this one broken man reminds her of what might have been.

She feels a sharp, stabbing pain in her gut. She lets out a whimper, shudders against him, and cries out, tears seeping from the corners of her eyes as she realizes what's happening. Sylar has gotten what he came for. Her future is different and she doesn't exist in this form anymore. She's someone else, she hopes that someone is better.

She reaches up, her fingers caressing his warm cheek as she begins to fade, and she hopes that he does survive. Maybe when they meet the painter will remember her like this, as his savior, and maybe, just maybe the cheerleader will have a future with him.

--

As he slowly opens his eyes he knows something isn't right. He sits up in the bed, realizing that he's naked and alone. The sheets are slowly cooling where her body had been curled up next to his. He looks around for her, but he knows deep in his gut that she's already gone. His stomach bottoms out a little at the thought that she's gone just as quickly as she'd appeared in his life, just as broken as him, and now that he's fixed she's gone.

He gets up from the bed, pulls on a pair of jeans and walks toward his kitchen area, his bare feet warm against the cold floor of his apartment, the heat from her blood still racing in his veins, and he wonders if maybe she did more than fix him. He crosses the room to the section he's designated as his studio. He shuffles a few things around on the table until he sees the Stanley knife. He grabs it and drags it across his left arm. He winces at the pain, and then his eyes widen as the wound flares with heat and the skin re-knits itself. He sucks in a sharp breath as he realizes that she's left him with her ability.

He drops the knife and stumbles back.

She's gone now, whatever task she was sent back in time to do is done. It's probably changed the person that she becomes, she won't ever be that Claire again. He hopes her future is a better one. This strange time traveling woman, a broken and pieced back together, perfect future Claire is gone. All that's left is the innocent cheerleader.

His head lifts as he looks around, his eyes falling on the painting of the cheerleader looking lost in her bedroom, a painting he'd done a few days ago. He walks toward it, his fingers reaching out to trace over her delicate form. He then turns to the portrait of the exploding man, Peter. He licks his lips, his eyes brightening with the new fire in his veins. He has a purpose now; he can be more than a painter who sees the future. He can be a hero.

"I'll keep you safe," he murmurs as he turns back to his latest painting of the cheerleader, still innocent, untouched, and so full of feeling. It's a promise he knows he'll keep, because judging from the painting of the exploding man, and a feeling deep down in his gut, he knows that Peter is going to fail her. After all he owes his salvation to this girl.

He takes in a deep breath as he reaches for a palette and paints. He closes his eyes to concentrate and he feels his ability slipping over him and taking over. He has a whole new future to paint.

--

_Sometimes the evolution of desperation leads us to rediscover ourselves, to remember our humanity._

End.

--

Author's Notes: There is a sequel to this story in the works where Isaac meets Claire of the present, as the innocent cheerleader... It's called "Living Underneath the Surface"!


End file.
